Micha Boyett
I’ve been writing in some other places this week and I’d love to scoot you on over their way. Do you mind clicking?
On Tuesday I had the opportunity to share one of my poems at John Blase’s lovely blog The Beautiful Due. He’s been featuring the poems of several writers and bloggers he knows and I’m honored he asked for my contribution. I gave him a poem called “Rooting” that I started the week after August was born and only just finished recently. (Okay, let’s be honest. It’s probably not finished. Must. Revise. More.) Can I share it with you here?
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Also, I have a new post up at A Deeper Church. Here’s a snippet of it. I hope you’ll read the whole thing over there.
I live on the foggy side of San Francisco. It’s cheaper here. (Cheaper being a relative term.) There’s more room for kids to play, more room for bikes and (sometimes) backyards. We’re urban on this side of the fog, but the coffee is less fancy. There are no hipster restaurants known only for making awesome toast. Here we have families: thriving immigrant communities and professionals all living together and shopping where the bright signs declare store names in Cantonese or Russian.
On the other side of town, people sigh contented that they live where the sun shines. That’s not necessarily true. All of San Francisco can be foggy from time to time. What’s true is that the fog starts where I live and snakes out. I’m still getting used to that reality. When I look up the weather online, when I listen to the forecast on the news, I plan for sunny days. I forget that in the scope of this seven-mile-wide city, we all see the sun through various levels of fog.
From where I stand, there is nothing you can say to convince me this is a sunny day. I see all cloud. I feel the wet on my skin. I bundle my children and head to the playground anyway. Don’t tell me it’s a warm day in the Mission. I might believe you but I’m not living it.
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I was reading Psalm 68 the other day when I came to that line in verse 33. God rides in the heavens, it said. In the heavens, above the atmosphere, above that space beyond our reach, that space we exist beneath. God rises out of the fog and flies fast through the open space above it.
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I’ve been thinking about that. You and your theology. Me and mine. You and your certainty. Me and my doubt. You and your flag dancing worship, loud and bold. Me and my quiet liturgy, all that repetition. I’d rather sit still in the candle lit sanctuary. You’d rather laugh and shout and spin.
It looks, by all appearances, like we are different, friend. It looks like you don’t understand me and I don’t understand you…
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